Stone
possibilities
This was it.
My last cigarette.
The last one in the pack. The last one of the day. The last one before I quit all together, for good. At least that's what I was telling myself. Yet, even as I repeated those three words in my head as I flicked my lighter, I knew it wasn't true. Not for good, not all together.
I sucked on the end of my last smoke, trying to savor everything that was this moment. In a few minutes and a cloud of smoke from now, I'd be obligated to get up from my seat on the hood of my car and get in it, buckling up for the ride to the airport.
I was heading out. Starting fresh. I was going somewhere with a new scenery, new people, and most of all, new opportunities for me (to inevitably fuck up.)
I'm not sure where I'm going. I've only done this once before. When I turned eighteen, I left town. I headed to Jacksonville, which is where I am now, searching. Only that time I wasn't sharing my goodbyes with my last lonely cigarette; I'd had a "boyfriend" then (his title for himself, not mine) who felt the need to kiss me multiple times before I crawled into the driver's seat and left him for what he assumed would be only a few weeks of "Kay Time." I haven't spoken to him since.
I never found what I was looking for, though, hence the bags in the backseat and the hundred dollar bill under the passenger's side floor mat, which would be for emergencies and emergencies only. Which is why I am now repeating myself by packing up and shipping off. I hadn't found it - whatever "it" is. Myself, love, happiness. Yeah, I was without.
And when one is without you must work to gather what you need.
I'm not one hundred percent sure what I've been looking for all of these years. It started during high school, the want to escape. I knew there was something out there for me, somewhere. I left home a month after graduation. I've been in Jacksonville for a year now, which has turned out to be too long.
Before I left Sarasota, I was a girl with potential. I had friends, boys, and connections. When I escaped, I had nothing of use, other than some suitcases and a worn Benjamin, my father's parting gift, which is still tucked under the floor mat. I had nothing. Except possibilities. And with possibilities, you have everything.
The possibility of becoming a chain smoker. The possibility of getting into denim jackets and cuffed jeans. The possibility of becoming a clerk at the tiny store on the corner of Turner and 5th Street.
So, now I'm dropping the cigarettes. I had let the cherry burn itself out after about a minute after lighting the thing. I wasn't as fond of the death sticks like I'd been a year ago.The denim jacket is buried under my socks and swimwear. I'll never again have to say the words "Thank you for choosing Martin's, the oldest corner store in Jacksonville!"
I'm free again. I have possibilities. Millions of them. I'm rich.
My last cigarette.
The last one in the pack. The last one of the day. The last one before I quit all together, for good. At least that's what I was telling myself. Yet, even as I repeated those three words in my head as I flicked my lighter, I knew it wasn't true. Not for good, not all together.
I sucked on the end of my last smoke, trying to savor everything that was this moment. In a few minutes and a cloud of smoke from now, I'd be obligated to get up from my seat on the hood of my car and get in it, buckling up for the ride to the airport.
I was heading out. Starting fresh. I was going somewhere with a new scenery, new people, and most of all, new opportunities for me (to inevitably fuck up.)
I'm not sure where I'm going. I've only done this once before. When I turned eighteen, I left town. I headed to Jacksonville, which is where I am now, searching. Only that time I wasn't sharing my goodbyes with my last lonely cigarette; I'd had a "boyfriend" then (his title for himself, not mine) who felt the need to kiss me multiple times before I crawled into the driver's seat and left him for what he assumed would be only a few weeks of "Kay Time." I haven't spoken to him since.
I never found what I was looking for, though, hence the bags in the backseat and the hundred dollar bill under the passenger's side floor mat, which would be for emergencies and emergencies only. Which is why I am now repeating myself by packing up and shipping off. I hadn't found it - whatever "it" is. Myself, love, happiness. Yeah, I was without.
And when one is without you must work to gather what you need.
I'm not one hundred percent sure what I've been looking for all of these years. It started during high school, the want to escape. I knew there was something out there for me, somewhere. I left home a month after graduation. I've been in Jacksonville for a year now, which has turned out to be too long.
Before I left Sarasota, I was a girl with potential. I had friends, boys, and connections. When I escaped, I had nothing of use, other than some suitcases and a worn Benjamin, my father's parting gift, which is still tucked under the floor mat. I had nothing. Except possibilities. And with possibilities, you have everything.
The possibility of becoming a chain smoker. The possibility of getting into denim jackets and cuffed jeans. The possibility of becoming a clerk at the tiny store on the corner of Turner and 5th Street.
So, now I'm dropping the cigarettes. I had let the cherry burn itself out after about a minute after lighting the thing. I wasn't as fond of the death sticks like I'd been a year ago.The denim jacket is buried under my socks and swimwear. I'll never again have to say the words "Thank you for choosing Martin's, the oldest corner store in Jacksonville!"
I'm free again. I have possibilities. Millions of them. I'm rich.
♠ ♠ ♠
Mmmm.